White Eagles Over Serbia

CHAPTER ELEVEN. The Rendezvous

The white diffuse light approached less quickly than he had anticipated, shivering along the dark cliff walls, at times disappearing altogether only to reappear once more round a corner like a glow-worm. He settled himself in the deepest part of the tree’s foliage, yet being careful enough to keep an empty space below him into which he could lob his packet should the car turn out to be Porson’s. He could hear the engine now more clearly and he decided from the hoarse note of the sound that it was not a touring car but a lorry which was approaching — probably carrying wood northward. As it swept round the last bend, however, it seemed to throw the beams of its headlights almost directly into the tree in which he was perched, silhouetting every leaf in its white incandescence of light, so that Methuen all at once felt completely naked and exposed to view. His eyes, accustomed now to darkness, took a moment or two to get used to the blinding glare; and he kept as still as possible, lest any movement of the foliage should betray him.

But one thing he was profoundly thankful for — his sudden change of position: for the lights penetrated directly into the thicket in which he had been lying before. He would have been forced to beat a retreat into the deeper part of the wood, and could not have done that without being seen. He was just congratulating himself on his good luck, however, when the lorry drew to a halt, its headlights still biasing, by the gushing spring and with a clang the drop-cover at the back opened to release — not a load of wood alas! — but a company of blue-clad police which scrambled into the road with weary oaths. For one second he thought that perhaps he had been spotted and fumbled for the safety-catch of his revolver, but he was reassured when the men advanced to the spring to drink and wash themselves; the headlights were switched off, and the dark was suddenly full of pin-points of red light from cigarettes.

He had caught sight of a small group of leather-men who were obviously in charge of the party, and who now sauntered up the road together talking. After a ten-minute halt this small group returned to the lorry and shouted harsh orders. The headlights were switched on again and Methuen saw two of the men in leather coats unrolling a map in the glare. He heard one say: “We should be in position by dawn to comb this area. This is where he will be — somewhere within this area,” and a shiver ran down his spine for it seemed to him that they must be talking about him. “We have time,” said one, and at another order the lorry’s lights were again switched off.

The police settled by the side of the road in little groups, some to lie and doze, and some to talk and argue in low voices. They were hailed from the rock-cutting over the river, and one of the leather-men stepped forward to answer the shout. “Police patrol!” he shouted, and climbing into the lorry, switched the lights on and off half a dozen times — obviously a pre-arranged signal.

Methuen was by now acutely anxious, for if Porson should arrive at this moment it would be quite impossible to communicate with him; moreover, if this patrol should stay here until daylight he would find himself trapped in the tree for the whole of the next day. His feeling of vulnerability was increased by the fact that he had noticed how heavily armed the police were — with tommy-guns and grenades. It was not much consolation to realize that their presence here in force certainly proved that something was going on in the mountains — the mountains which had seemed to him empty of all life. He wished now that he had not cumbered himself with the heavy parcel of fish, and he cursed his own stupidity under his breath.

An hour passed and still the patrol showed no signs of moving; the hands of Methuen’s watched pointed to half-past three. The first faint streaks of light had begun to come into the eastern sky. A set of headlights started to blink on the road to the south and he set his teeth — hoping that the next arrival was not Porson. This time, however, it was a lorry full of timber which did not stop.

In the light of its headlamps he caught sight of the small group of leather-coated officers, sitting apart from the main body, discussing something in low tones. Then, as the noise of the lorry boomed into silence along the rock-tunnels he heard to his relief a voice cry: “Attention now! All aboard!” and the night was alive with the noise of boots on stone. The lorry was started up, and after its complement of men had been loaded, someone barked a harsh order. Methuen smiled with relief to hear the whine of the clutch as it engaged, and to see the white blanket of light from the headlights move under him and plunge the tree once more into blessed darkness. The machine lurched raggedly off down the road and he was able to stretch his cramped limbs along the branches.

Silence settled once more over the road and Methuen found himself dying for a drink. He did not dare, however, to climb down from his perch, and lay his face to the icy gushing water of the spring. Its ripple tantalized him, and with an effort he forced himself to ignore his thirst and to concentrate on the gradually lightening landscape before him; the peaks of the mountain gorge were being silhouetted ever more clearly against the lightening sky. It was like watching an etching going through its various states. “Please God,” he said under his breath, “tell that young brute Porson not to let it get too light.”

The hour selected for the rendezvous was four, and as Methuen watched the hands of his watch creep to quarter past the hour he was once more seized with anxiety lest the contact should not be made. Perhaps Porson had had an accident; the simplest mishap could have delayed him by as much as an hour. Perhaps … but his speculations were cut short by the whirr of a car engine coming up fast from the south. In the pale lavender dawn light the headlights looked wan and pale, and he could see the faint plume of dust rising behind them. He gritted his teeth now in an agony of apprehension, preparing himself for disappointment, repeating to himself over and over again: “I bet it isn’t Porson. It can’t be Porson.”

But his heart gave a great leap when he saw a second spurt of dust come round the furthest bend in the gorge, some quarter of a mile behind the first. The seconds ticked away and the headlights played their fantastic game of hide and seek along the dark road. Then, with a roar, the old Mercedes blundered out of the final rock-cutting and advanced towards the spring. The hood was down, and both Porson and Blair were wrapped up against the dawn-chill in weird Balaclava helmets which gave them the appearance of demented airmen trying to get airborne. Porson was grinning elatedly up at the tree, though it was clear that he could not see Methuen among the leaves; Blair looked pale and excited. Methuen conquered a desire to shout aloud to them and as the car slid under him he dropped his parcel with a thud squarely into the back. Dust rose up into the leaves around him. The klaxon hooted twice, and he was just able to see a packet tossed out into the long grass by the white milestone when the second car burst into view. It was crowded with sleepy detectives in trilbies, lying dozing in different attitudes, like a litter of cats, while the radio scratched away with some Hungarian gipsy music relayed from Belgrade.

Methuen lay in the choking dust cloud for a clear minute and a half, listening to the drone of the engines diminishing, and gathered himself together for the next move. He was rather alarmed at the painful cramp which had beset him — for he was a practised shikari and had spent many a night perched soundlessly in a mechaan, waiting for tiger, without suffering unduly from fatigue. “Must be old age,” he said grimly, and looking about him carefully, began to edge his way out of his hiding-place.

Dawn was coming up fast now, and it was with relief that he retrieved the bundle left by the car and took to the deeper woods once more, climbing with steady tireless pace on the moss carpets beside the cataracts and pools of the Studenitsa, refreshed by the spray which blew into his face at every step.

He found a small fern-encircled nook at the top and took a short rest, which gave him an opportunity to examine the contents of the parcel which Porson had dropped him. He saw with delight that some of the items on his own shopping list had already been anticipated. There was a bundle of freshly-baked bread and some olives; two or three tins of meat; and — but this was divination — some soap which he had forgotten to bring with him. There was also a woollen helmet and a further supply of solid fuel. At first there was no sign of a written message but after an anxious hunt he found a thin sheet of paper covered with numerals and recognized with a thrill of pleasure the prearranged code from Walden. It would take him a little time to work out, and he addressed himself to the last slope after eating some of the bread and olives from the brown-paper parcel.

All was silent as he crept up the river bank, skilfully fording the stream at the familiar point and sneaking up to the cave-mouth under cover. He had set some twigs over the entrance in a special way so that any chance visitor to the cave must disarrange them, and he saw now with relief that nobody had visited his hideout in his absence. The snake had not appeared as yet, and he lit the fire in the early chill of dawn to make something hot to drink. Then he sat himself down with pencil and notebook and his copy of Walden to decipher the message Porson had left him. It took him some time to establish the text clearly, and as it grew under his hand he could not resist an occasional whistle of surprise. There were some new develepments of startling interest.

“Spoke to Don in Belgrade by phone code” it began (Don was Carter) “and have the following for you from the Shop. Submarine has left dockyards and reported in Adriatic. Actress Sophia Marie’s suicide announced over radio the morning we left for Skoplje, due to ‘overwork’. No news of Vida. Military report sinister activity your area. Three regiments of troops and some police converging on you from Sarajevo, Uzice, and Rashka respectively, obviously surrounding mountain-range. Ambassador anxious your return and suggests you hop Wednesday car down to Skoplje rather than wait. Don points out that what up to now has been police activity is becoming military operation including one unit of mortars and six machine-gun sections. Hopes you are not responsible for increased activity. Don cables that no advance made on radio messages except that Professor asks you to bear in mind that in original saga king’s birthright was hoard of precious stones.”

Precious stones! Machine-guns! Sophia Marie! For a while Methuen’s brain was in a whirl. What was to be made of all this reported activity in a landscape which offered not a living soul to the view? The larks were rising from the dewy meadows as he walked outside to think the whole thing over. The landscape slept as if it had been freshly painted by the hand of a master. He yawned as he drank some hot cocoa and read the transcript through slowly. He had still two days before the next rendezvous. How should he spend them? “It is really incredible that I haven’t put up anything at all,” he told himself despondently. “There must be something to show for all this activity somewhere.” But where?

He retired to the cave and slept for a while. At midday, after some food, he set off and walked due west along the range until dusk without result. The quietness of the landscape was no illusion for the wild life of the place told him the same tale. It was completely undisturbed by man. In his despondency he even shot a hare with his pistol, regretting as he did so that he had no receptacle suitable for jugging a creature which has such comparatively large bones. Nevertheless he slung it round his waist in a pocket and carried it home with him to the cave.

That night he slept free from alarms and woke to find that a storm had settled over the valley. The dark sky was suffused with clouds, and lightning played among the pines; the river too had turned white as a scar and was full of drifting logs being whirled down by the current. He spent a joyous hour fishing in the rain before returning soaked to his cave, which was by now as warm and dry as an airing cupboard. Here he disposed his catch, the rosy silvered trout, on moss and counting them decided that he had enough for the day if he was to be penned up by bad weather. “I’m really in danger of overeating,” he thought, thinking of the hare which he had hung for the night over his chimney.

The rain slashed and the thunder boomed the whole morning long and he was glad for an excuse to lie up and think of his plans. Despondency gave place now to resignation. After all, he had done his best. If there was nothing to report it was not his fault. He could not be expected to go out of his way to search for trouble. Dombey would have to be content.… But, and here he swore under his breath, what were the soldiers doing, converging upon this area from so many directions? Damn it, he could not believe that they were out to hunt for him. How would Dombey ever equate his report with that of the military movements?

He retired to bed early that night and the following morning he set out once more, walking due north; he climbed the high saddle of mountains between this valley and the next, and spent some hours with his glasses combing the fells and downs for signs of movement. In vain. The following day he repeated the same journey only travelling due south this time, vaguely in the direction of Rashka. He encountered a few wood-cutters but nothing else; a gang of platelayers worked in spasmodic fashion on the railway; two fishermen sat immobile on the distant banks of the Ibar. That was all. That was absolutely all.

Wednesday (the day of the rendezvous) dawned bright and clear, and conscience bade him once more repeat the long trudges of the last two days. But he had as yet not decided how to respond to the Ambassador’s request. Should he stay or should he return? That was the question. If he were to stay until Saturday he might well take one day off to devote to his passion. “I’ll stay,” he said after a long interior debate. “Damn it, I must.” And once the decision was made his spirits rose again. He wrote a fairly detailed report for Dombey, and then made his way down to the river to find the little screened nook from which he fished in the evenings. As he settled himself he repeated the last words of his report aloud, shaking his head sadly as he did so: “I can guarantee a complete quiet in an area of five miles radius around this point.”

It was radiantly sunny and the air was full of summer scents; he leaned easily against a bush, screened from both man and fish, and began to scribble his watery patterns, moving from time to time to explore a new piece of watery territory.

As he worked the polished surface of the river he fell into that pleasant contemplative mood, born of deep thought — but not conscious thought — that anglers and perhaps chess-players also regard as the greatest reward of their efforts. The sun shone brightly in the sky and the woods around were alive with bird-song. In a corner of a pool he discovered once more a special trout that he had swom to take, and was tempting it to the fly by every means at his command when something caught his glance which made him dive for cover.

He had seen the reflection of someone in the water some ten yards away — moreover the reflection of someone who was holding a tommy-gun to his shoulder in an attitude of alertness. In the same blinding flash of recognition he also recognized that the reflection had been pointing in his direction, though not exactly at him. He pressed himself to the ground, thrusting his precious rod as far into the bushes as he could, and coaxed his pistol out of its sling. His dive for safety had taken him into deep cover and he was confident now that he was out of sight, but so was the unknown. He remembered now noticing that the man wore the grey soldier’s tunic and the flat cap with the red star.

All was silent, and after a moment’s pause he worked his way quietly back to the shadow outside the cave. The tree was like a great eyebrow in the shadow of which he could squat unobserved and look out upon the bare hillside opposite.

The silence, so ominous now with hidden dangers, possessed him like a drug. He listened to it, gradually sifting it for known sounds like bird-song or the noise of the water: like the ripple of wind-blown foliage and the croak of frogs: sifting it for some other indications, however slight, of trespassers. There had been no mistaking the meaning of that reflection. And he was wondering whether perhaps his cave had been discovered when a burst of rapid fire brought him to his feet.

The foliage danced and shook on the hillside opposite as the spate of bullets struck the branches of an arbutus; and at the same time a figure broke cover and began to run with clumsy zigzag steps across the river bank opposite. “God,” said Methuen. The tommy-gunner altered his angle of fire and a jumping rain of bullets cracked the polished surface of the river as they sped after the running man. It was now that Methuen had a dream-like sensation of unreality, for the fugitive was dressed exactly like him in every detail from the moth-eaten fur cap to the heavy peasant boots. It was as if some absurd travesty of himself were being pursued by that hail of bullets over the green sward across the river.

A whistle sounded over the hill. The man in the heavy boots lurched and bounded towards the trees with the bullets kicking up the ground at his heels. “He’s done it,” said Methuen as he saw him reaching safety; but just as he reached the edge of the wood he staggered and crashed out of sight into a bush. “He’s hit.” Methuen felt a sense of identification with him. He shrank back into cover as there came the sound of running feet, and a soldier crashed through the undergrowth below the cave, holding his tommy-gun above his head as he plunged into the river in pursuit of the fugitive.

At this moment two more soldiers came over the brow of the hill at the double and they all converged on the spot where the man in the heavy boots had gone to earth. “Only three of them,” said Methuen. “Shall I shoot them?” but he restrained so wild an impulse, for the range was by now too great for his weapon. Instead he focused his glasses on the spot and watched in an agony of excitement. The three soldiers were hulking peasant lads and showed little aptitude for tracking their man; nor did they seem to have any officer with them. They walked stolidly through the bushes, making a prodigious noise, and occasionally firing a rapid burst into places which they suspected of harbouring the fugitive.

As they advanced in a ragged line down the hill Methuen started with surprise, for he had seen something else; a head had appeared at the further end of the copse they were beating — the head of the man in the fur hat. He gazed about him quickly, like a snake, and began a slithering sliding movement down and away from that stolid row of grey figures; in a few moments he had put a maize-patch between himself and bis pursuers and rose from his hands and knees. But now Methuen could see that he had been wounded for he lurched and staggered, clutching his side, his feet continually giving way under him. He reached the bottom of the dell and started making for the river when his strength gave out and he fell face downward on the grass, breathing in hoarse strangled gasps.

In a flash Methuen was out of cover and down the hill. He crossed the stream and reached the side of the fallen man in a matter of moments. He gripped his shoulder and turned him face upward and saw at once that he had been badly hit; a contorted swollen face stared up at him in fear and anger. “Come,” said Methuen, “I’ll get you out of this. Can you walk?” But the man was past walking — indeed all but past speaking. His eye were glazed with pain. He was heavily built but Methuen took him up in a special grip of his own and with a vast expenditure of effort hoisted him slowly across the stream and up the hill. “Hurry!” the man kept whispering. “Hurry!” and indeed Methuen needed no bidding. He was in a sweat of apprehension lest the soldiers return before he reached the cave-mouth.

He achieved the journey safely, however, and carried his burden into the cave where he laid it down on his bracken bed. The man groaned from time to time. He had been shot in the stomach, and Methuen had experience enough to recognize a mortal wound when he saw one. He would not live very long. Nevertheless he busied himself to make him as comfortable as possible and after a swig at his flask the man recovered some colour and was able to speak in a whisper: “Brother,” he said, “I was trying to make contact for days, but you did not give the signal. I wanted to be sure it was you.” Methuen stared at him and said nothing; but the man went on slowly, talking it seemed, as much to himself as to his rescuer. “I waited for the signal. Now I am dying so I shall tell you the message quickly. Listen.” Methuen washed his face in warm water and said soothingly: “I listen. I listen.”

“Mules. I got the mules. All of them. They will come over the mountains and must be met at the old border wall on the top of Rtanj. Then you will lead them to Black Peter at the Janko Stone. Tell him to load without delay and start for the coast.” His voice tailed away into a mumble and Methuen seized a pencil and jotted down the place-names, excited beyond measure to have discovered something concrete. “No delay,” the man repeated. “There must be no delay. The police have smelt a rat. Sixty armed men of the Eagles will join Black Peter at twilight tomorrow and they must march at night without a halt.” He groaned again and closed his eyes.

Methuen was wrestling with the momentous meanings which could lie behind this message when he heard voices outside the cave. In a flash he was at the entrance in time to see the three soldiers come over the hill towards him, and ford the river. “He must have gone up here,” one was saying in a loud drunken voice. They crashed across the shallows and began to climb the slope towards the cave-mouth. Methuen shrank back, pistol in hand, into the deeper shadow. “Keep silent,” he whispered to the wounded man. “They are coming.”

They advanced in straggling fashion up the hill, arguing loudly, and came to the knoll below the great tree before one said: “Not up here, surely.” The second of the three, whose voice was the loudest, replied: “Looks like a cave up there. I bet you’ll find him in there.”

It looked like the end of everything; Methuen’s only consolation was that he might kill all three without giving them time to “hose down” (in the picturesque army phrase) the cave in which he crouched. He waited grimly, listening to the sound of their heavy boots crunching and slipping outside. Then there was a sigh and a voice said: “It’s a cave all right.”

It was at this moment that the snake saved the day. It slithered into the sunlit patch at the entrance and took up its usual position, waiting no doubt for lizards to creep out and sun themselves unsuspectingly on the nearby rock-face. Methuen heard it hiss loudly; and the scrabble of boots outside, accompanied by a gasp, told him that the party had recoiled. “Look out!” said a soldier, “the snake.”

Another began to laugh. “Well,” he said, “he can’t be living with a brute like that. Shall I kill it?” There was a long pause during which the snake hissed again. One of the soldiers coughed and said: “There is probably another inside. Don’t fire.”

They stood irresolutely in a circle, and peeping round the corner Methuen realized that he could drop all three without difficulty. Nevertheless he waited. One took off his cap and scratched his head. Then he said with conviction: “Snakes are unlucky. I’m not going in there. Are you?” The other two laughed harshly and Methuen heard them click on the safety catches of their weapons. “Nor me,” said the one with the loud voice. Then he turned away, adding: “Come on, we’ll lose him altogether if we waste time.”

In the relief from the tension Methuen heard his own even heart-beats above the noise of their heavy boots retreating. He heaved a sigh and thrust his pistol back into its sling, turning once more to the wounded man. There were one or two vital points to be cleared up. But the man had sunk into a coma from which there was no rousing him and Methuen took the opportunity to write a brief account of this latest incident. “I propose”, he added, “to meet the mule-team to-night and lead them up to the so-called Janko Stone — which is a sort of obelisk set up long ago to mark the border between Serbia and Bosnia. It is on the furthest plateau, six thousand-odd feet above sea-level, a barren stretch of mountain which I’ve studied through glasses but not climbed. I’ll try for the Sunday morning rendezvous. By then I should know what it is all about.”

His spirits rose now at the prospect of something concrete to do, and he turned his attention to his patient, trying to bandage the gaping stomach-wound, from which a fragment of red intestine was trying to escape, with strips cut from his shirt. He also made a little warm soup and tried to force some between the clenched teeth of the wounded man. In vain. He was tempted to try a surgical repair of the wound with the needle and thread which he had with him and had gone so far as to swab the area of the wound with acriflavin when the man’s breathing abruptly changed to a heavy gasping snore punctuated by ghastly hiccoughs. Only his extraordinary physique had kept him alive so long. But now the colour drained from his face and his teeth began to grind as if with cold.

Methuen shook him and tried to rouse him from his coma. It was essential to know not only who he was but also to know the password which would admit him to the headquarters of the White Eagles. But it seemed in vain. Once he opened his eyes and muttered: “Mother … It’s Marko, Mother,” and that provided the only essential clue he was to leave Methuen; for the rest the ghastly breathing continued. “He’s dying,” said Methuen aloud, and folding those blood-caked hands on the fugitive’s chest he repeated aloud the only Serbian prayers he could remember, his voice sounding tremulous and thin in the resonance of the cave. In another quarter of an hour the breathing became feebler and the man died with scarcely a murmur. “So your name is Marko,” said Methuen, still tormented by the missing pieces of the jig-saw puzzle. “Marko,” he repeated angrily, getting his possessions together, “Marko.”

It was by now mid-afternoon and he must hurry if he was not to miss the rendezvous. He hid his possessions as well as he could and set off from the cave at speed, doubling and turning from copse to copse, watching for the soldiers. Mercifully they had disappeared as suddenly as they had first appeared and he reached the gorge without seeing a soul. He raced down the mossy slopes at breakneck speed, and arrived at the road with five minutes to spare. Once more he blessed his luck for there was not a soul about and the rendezvous went off without a hitch. Before the dust of the cars had died away he was already in the ditch gripping the white packet which had been dropped. This time it was in ordinary script and said: “Nothing further to report. Presume you will return so this is unnecessary.”

“Presume my foot!” he said in the general direction of the road which Porson had taken. “I’m seeing this thing through.” And it was with a savage elation that he climbed out of the gorge towards the sunlight which slanted over the plateau. He had decided not to go back to the cave and risk capture, so he had taken with him everything necessary for the long walk up the central plateau. He rested now for half an hour by his watch, and ate some bread and cold meat from the hare he had cooked. Then, after a long drink, he set off, turning due west away from the cave across the slanting valley, towards the source of the Studenitsa.

He walked now at a slower pace more suited to the journey he had undertaken, and as he walked he once more wrestled in his mind with the various pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, trying to fit them all together into one comprehensible pattern. Certainly the picture had somewhat cleared. It was quite plain that the White Eagles had discovered something of quite exceptional importance in the mountains — treasure of some sort which would enable the Royalists to establish themselves. Therefore they had concentrated as many men as they could around it. It was to be borne westward over the barren karst mountains to the coast where presumably.… “Of course,” he said aloud, striking his knee with impatience, “the submarine.” It was to be got out of the country by submarine. “The King’s birthright?” he reflected. “Precious stones? Uranium?” Methuen became increasingly angry with himself for not being able to guess the answer to the riddle. He munched bread as he walked.

Then there was the question of Anson’s death; it was fairly clear that Anson was also on the point of solving the mystery when death had caught up with him, though how and in what form it was impossible to say. Certainly the return of the body by the Communist authorities suggested that they were not themselves responsible for it. If Anson had somehow blundered into the headquarters of the White Eagles it was quite possible that they had silenced him without knowing more than that he was a foreign spy.

Yet all the time at the back of his mind there was an irritating feeling that he already knew the nature of the King’s treasure, that he had already heard, or read somewhere, something which would give him the answer. What was it? “It’s clear, too,” he added aloud, “that the leather-men have also discovered something. There is going to be a most almighty battle about it.”

He crossed the first shoulder of mountain beyond the monastery and could not help stopping to admire the soft undulating mountain lawn through which his way led by a maze of paths, through fir plantations and groves of mulberry trees. The fresh smell of hay was delicious and in the middle distance he saw the higher slopes dark and feathery with beeches. It was quite hard to imagine that once he crossed the crest he would be far from towns and human habitations. The landscape had the premeditated air of a great formal park and one half-expected to see the gables of some Elizabethan country house peeping through the screen of green foliage at every corner.

The sun was sinking though its warmth still drugged the windless air and on this side of the mountains the flowers and foliage grew more and more luxurious, while the woods were full of tits and wrens and blackbirds. The woods were carpeted with flowers, sweet-smelling salvia, cranesbill, and a variety of ferns. Here and there, too, bright dots of scarlet showed him where wild strawberries grew, and in these verdant woods the pines and beeches increased in size until he calculated that he was walking among glades of trees nearly a hundred feet in height. He could not help contrasting all this peace and beauty with the grim errand upon which he was bent, and which might lead him to sudden death.

He crossed the western slopes of the ridge and began to climb steeply through a pine plantation — pines with long wrinkled arms and shaggy beards of lichen, like patriarchs, awakening in his mind memories of Lapland. Then once again, on the sunny slopes beyond, the pines gave place to beeches — cheerful avenues of sun-dappled arches opening into glades where butterflies fluttered — commas, whites and clouded yellows. He thought of Dombey and smiled grimly. How envious of him Dombey would be if he could see him: Dombey chainsmoking in his gloomy office above the London traffic.

The track he was following now began to ascend rapidly once more and followed a long curve which looked as if it marked the beginning of a water-shed. On the other side stretched the backbone of the mountain-chain, the colour of elephant-skin in the evening light. There was Rtanj, and somewhere in the golden mist beyond it was the Janko Stone. This latter he had heard of on his earlier journey but had never visited it; indeed only the shepherds with their flocks ever ventured up on to the roof of the mountains, and there were no roads to tempt a traveller.

He rested for a while in the woods, pleased with his progress, for he reckoned to reach the crown of Rtanj well before midnight, which he presumed must be the rendezvous time for the mule-train. At any rate if he were late they must wait for Marko, he told himself; and since Marko was dead.… He surveyed the whole range through his glasses but could see nothing of interest. A flock of sheep grazed on the nether slopes of the mountain but he could see no sign of the shepherd, if shepherd they had.

The sun rolled behind a crest and all of a sudden the prospect darkened and flushed red. He set out once more, feeling as if he were the last man on earth, walking in a dream landscape towards a destination he might never reach. Yet he was heartened by his own good spirits and by the fact that as yet he hardly felt tired by the long journey he had made that day. His body was getting into the swing of things, he reflected with relief and pleasure.

Darkness fell as he reached the edge of the great bare upland pasture which marked the beginning of Rtanj, and here he found the whole backbone of the mountain deeply carpeted with a kind of grey-mauve heather of great density. It was as thick as a mattress and though he rejoiced in its beauty he was annoyed to have to slacken his pace, for the going had become much harder. Despite this, however, he calculated that he would reach the crown of the mountain with time to spare.

Once or twice in the eerie half-light he thought he caught sight of figures moving to his left, and he went out of his way to investigate: hoping to meet the mule-team. But each time he was mistaken. A thin slice of new moon came out to keep him company but gave little light. The night was windless though the very lack of wind seemed to create a great rushing vacuum of emptiness up here which teased the ears, making them imagine they could hear the sound of distant voices, or water falling, or the calls of birds which had long since returned to their nests.

From time to time he came upon the great smooth stones, remains of the ancient wall, which had once separated two kingdoms, and touching their smooth surfaces with his hands he could not help thinking that there was something eerie about them. They seemed left over from some forgotten Cyclopean age. He was reminded of Stonehenge. The wall followed the crest up the hills until it reached the final obelisk which had been called the Janko Stone — heaven only knew why. It was a useful marker for him, however, and he was glad to be able to orient himself by these great shattered blocks which loomed up at him through the darkness.

It was well after eleven before he reached the crest of Rtanj and stood looking round him at the dim chain of shadowy mountains around. Ahead, at an even higher elevation, lay the second peak where the Janko Stone stood, and here he descried a fitful beam of light, as from a camp fire. “Well,” he said, “the rest is up to the mules.” And sitting himself down on a fallen boundary stone he shed his equipment and settled down to a well-earned dinner. He had not realized how ravenous he was, and he made serious inroads upon the small supply of food he had brought with him; worse still, he had made no provision for water, as he had counted on operating in the river country, while this bare upland lacked springs or rivers. He hoped the muleteers, whoever they might be, would be carrying water, and would let him quench his thirst.

Midnight came and went. He stood up on the stone from time to time and raked the darkness with his glasses — which were indeed admirable night-glasses and had been owned by a U-boat captain during the war. But the darkness offered him no clue as to the mule-team. He was worried by the thickness of the grass too: for even a mule-team would be completely muffled by so thick a carpet, and perhaps it might pass him by during the night.

The stone was cold, and the heavy dew penetrated his duffle coat. The hand of his watch pointed to half-past one before he heard — not without incredulity, for it might be a trick of the wind — the creak of girths and the snort of some animal — horse or mule perhaps — in the darkness. He immediately started in the direction of the sound, walking swiftly and bending double so that he would not be seen against the sky.

One hundred yards away from his resting-place there was a deep depression in the ground and here he heard the champing of mules and the low voices of men. He did not quite know in what terms to hail them so he lay on the ground and coughed loudly. At once there was silence, and then after a slight pause a deep voice said: “Ho!” drawing out the sound in a solemn and impressive manner.

“Ho!” replied Methuen, drawing the word out for a full second and letting his voice sink down the register in the same impressive manner. He lay on the ground and waited. Presently a voice quite near him said hoarsely: “Marko? Where are you?” Methuen licked his dry lips and said: “Marko is dead. He sent me to guide the team.” There was a sudden click of safety-catches in the darkness followed by silence. Methuen went on: “The soldiers found him near the valley of the Studenitsa river. They shot him.”

A second figure must by this time have moved forward towards him in the darkness, for another voice said harshly: “Have you light?”

“Yes.”

“Light your own face so that we can see you.”

His torch was pretty feeble but it gave light enough; he was still lying down and in the yellowish beam he saw that his interlocutors had been standing up addressing the darkness over his head. Now they knelt and stared long and earnestly at him. “Who are you?” said the deep-voiced one. Methuen rose to his knees and gave his cover-name, adding that he had been sent out by headquarters with a message for Black Peter; on the way he had met Marko by accident, had witnessed his death, and was on the way to deliver both messages to the White Eagles. He himself was a Yugoslav who had emigrated to Paris fifteen years before, he added, and had recently been infiltrated to help with the battle.

The men withdrew and muttered together, while Methuen turned off his torch and waited; he took the extra precaution of moving a dozen paces to his right in the dark. Presently the voices approached again and one said: “Very well. We should get going.” Methuen scrambled to his feet and came out to meet the muleteers. He found to his delight that a number had brought water-bottles and other more powerful drinks — plum brandy, the ubiquitous rakia of Serbia — and more than one smelt strongly of it. There seemed in all to be about a dozen muleteers and they seemed a fairly well-disciplined lot despite the smell of shlivovitz which clung to some of them, for there was hardly any talking and chatter among them.

The mules formed up in a long straggling line and the man who seemed to be in charge of the party came to join Methuen. He was a bulky-looking Serbian wood-cutter (and Methuen later was to learn that he was the brother of the dead Marko): “You must lead now”, he said simply, “and become our eyes.”

While the daylight held Methuen had taken the precaution to take a bearing on the Janko Stone with the help of his tiny oil-compass and Capella which was clear and high in the northwest. It was to be presumed that the terrain, like that which they had already traversed, offered no difficulty, being grassy and soft. Nevertheless it is always nerve-racking to be responsible for the direction of a pack of mules and twelve men, when you have never traversed the road before: when you are not certain of the reception you will receive on arrival: moreover when you have no idea what the password is.… So Methuen rambled on to himself as he climbed into the uncomfortable wooden saddle of the foremost mule and urged the column forward with a great show of certainty. Most of the men walked beside their animals, and after half an hour of torture Methuen decided that their choice was the right one, and followed suit.

The leader of the party drew up beside him and walked along, talking amiably in the darkness as they sweated and stumbled upwards towards the clouds. He lived beyond Rashka on the mountain range which runs eastwards in the direction of Nish. “Difficult country to hide in,” he said. “We lost many men to the Communists.” (He spat expressively into the darkness at each mention of the word.) Methuen set himself to draw the fellow out and was delighted by the ease with which the peasant, having once given his confidence to him, felt no further need for reticence.

“Do you think”, said Methuen, “the mules will be enough to transport it?” The peasant shrugged his shoulders and said: “If it is carbon or wood or tea, I can give you an answer. But for gold who can say? Is it big? Is it small? Is it dust?” Methuen stopped in his tracks and gave a snort of sheer surprise which was succeeded by a spasm of furious anger against his own short-sightedness. For he had really known the answer to the problem all the time. Only blind stupidity had kept him so long in the dark. For now, at the mention of the word “gold” he remembered the mysterious disappearance of the gold reserves belonging to the National Bank of Yugoslavia at the outbreak of the war with Germany.

When Hitler’s troops poured southward into Serbia some sort of attempt had been made to get the gold reserves away to safety. Those belonging to the largest bank in Yugoslavia, however, had been taken somewhere into south Serbia and — by all accounts — lost. At any rate, during the war both Chetnik and Partisan hunted feverishly for the treasure which both believed to be buried somewhere in the mountains of Serbia. The Germans, and later the Russians, had both shown considerable interest in the matter; but without any result. After the so-called liberation — which turned out to be a worse slavery than ever — the government tried to trace the group which had been put in charge of the bullion when it was taken south in a lorry. But it seemed that they had been murdered by Partisans during the war. Not a soul knew the whereabouts of this large sum of.… Methuen whistled to himself. “It must be the key to the whole thing,” he told himself triumphantly. “At any rate it is the only key which unlocks every door.”

Still staggered by his own stupidity he went back over every stage of his inquiry and tested against a single hypothesis: if the White Eagles had located the treasure what would they be likely to do? The answer followed very naturally: try and guard it, try and tell the exiles about it, try and get it out by submarine.… The gnomic verses which had been broadcast returned to his mind in the light of this new knowledge and he had no difficulty now in deciphering what the message was which lay behind the words.

But as the corollary of the first question one should ask another; namely, what would the Communists do if they found out about the treasure? The answer was short and ugly: surround the place, wipe out the Royalists, and get it.

“You can see, too,” said Methuen to himself sleepily, “that the size of it makes it important. I seem to remember a figure of about fifteen or twenty million being quoted in the newspapers. The Royalists would be rich enough to found their movement on something stronger than faith. One could buy arms and agents.…” He understood now the importance that Vida had placed upon the discovery; and understanding that he felt once more how dangerous was his own position, for people with so much to lose would stick at nothing — as witness Vida’s own death. Presumably she had been considered a dangerous person, perhaps a traitor.…

“I suppose,” said Methuen to himself, “I should really go back to Belgrade at once.” He turned and watched the dark strings of mules on the mountain-side behind him for a moment. “Mission accomplished. Thank you very much.” He imitated Dombey’s voice congratulating him on having cleared up the mystery and smiled. “A good agent would clear out now,” he admitted, “but there is no transport back.” He was committed to the adventure.